


In the Eye of the Storm in My Head

by beckettemory



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Autism, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Newt is autistic, Overstimulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:18:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckettemory/pseuds/beckettemory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lunch rush in the mess hall sends Newt spiraling down quickly into a meltdown. He flees the scene and goes off in a frantic search for his comfort object and some sweet relief for the screaming in his head and down his spine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Eye of the Storm in My Head

Newt’s brain was humming with electricity, his body tingling painfully. His hands fidgeted of their own accord, fingers tapping invisible piano keys, occasionally syncing up to flap excitedly at his sides. His knees bounced under the table in a complex rhythm. Dun-dundun-dun-dundundun-dun-dun-dundun-dun. He screwed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw.

_Fuck. Fuck shit fuck ow shit boner boner boner boner._

Somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware of the eyes on him, watching him fall apart at the end of the long table. Angela, the nurse he’d always been assigned to when he got injured and landed in the med bay, had been sitting across the table from him, but had left when the mess hall had begun to swarm with people on their lunch breaks, leaving him alone and overwhelmed.

There were too many people. Too many voices. Too much movement. Newt resisted the urge to press his hands to his ears and scream to block out the sound. He’d draw even more attention like that and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

He opened his eyes and stared down at the too-mushy apple and the too-thick mashed potatoes still left on his tray. He’d physically recoiled after biting into the apple, drawing a chuckle from Angela. Red delicious. More like red disgusting. He’d retreated to the crunchy comfort of the fried chicken to dull the apple feeling still left on his tongue.

He glanced around himself, plotting his escape. Two exits: one near the beginning of the food line, one on the far side of the room. The door near the food would be difficult; people were still pushing through it and there would no doubt be some acquaintances who would need to speak to him, tell him he didn’t look so good. He knew that. The door on the far side was out too. Too many people between here and there, and he could see not only the three idiots who worked on Striker Eureka’s left hand, but the Kaidonovskys right there next to the door. No escape without being noticed.

_Fuck. Fuck damnit fuck shit. Asshole fuck shit. Boners. Double boners. Assfuck boners. Jesus damnit fuck. OW._

Newt felt a tingle in his back and arched it, hoping to squash the itch that wasn’t quite an itch between his shoulder blades. He took three deep breaths, counting to eight on each inhale and exhale. Eight. One two three four five six seven eight. What a good number. Perfect number.

He cringed and stiffened as someone ran behind him, startling him and causing a rush of air to flow lightly across his neck. He clenched his fists harder, hoping to stifle the convulsions that threatened to surface to rid him of that awful feeling. He had to get out of the mess hall. Now.

He stood suddenly and grabbed his tray, keeping his eyes firmly on the ground a few feet ahead, low enough to avoid eye contact and see any obstacles. He gripped the tray so tightly his knuckles turned white. He walked quickly and carefully towards the tray deposit. Once empty handed he raised his eyes long enough to plan his route.

He felt a sharp pain in his arm and realized he had been unconsciously scratching at a phantom itch. He switched from nails to his palm and rubbed vigorously at the patch of skin he knew to be Yamarashi’s head. He bounced twice on the balls of his feet, readying himself, and then lurched forward.

Nine steps to the first turn. Dodge two people. Overcorrect. Catch self. Six steps quickly past the Hansens. Mostly ignore Herc’s greeting. Try to ignore Chuck’s loud complaint about “the fucking autistic”. Try not to feel too happy about the slap heard a moment later. Turn left. Accidentally make eye contact with man staring. Cringe and look down. Steel self for group of people hogging the aisle. Cringe when one woman laughs loudly. Contort self so as not to touch anyone. Fail miserably while overcorrecting and a man reaches out to grab arm. Let out yelp on accident. All but sprint out the door, cheeks burning and eyes watering.

Newt walked quickly, not caring where he was going but he knew that if he stopped walking, if he stopped moving, he would surely die. It was a completely illogical feeling, he was well aware, but this knowledge did not slow his feet or stifle the whimpers coming from his throat. The humming in his brain was now a hurricane, throwing thoughts around in his head so fast he couldn’t grab ahold of any long enough to really think them. The only steady thoughts in the eye of the storm were:

_Move. Move. Move. I’m going to die. I have to get somewhere quiet. Somewhere warm and familiar. Somewhere safe. Move. I’m going to die. I’m going to die._

_I’m going to die._

A single tear forced its way out. And another. And another. Several more. And then he was crying, tears streaming down his face as he completed another lap around the Level 7 residences. People were staring at him and he didn’t care, couldn’t care. He all but ran through the halls, feet matching the pace of his head. Walking was too slow. Too slow. He’d die if he walked.

_Move._

Suddenly a thought flew out of the vortex in his head and landed in the eye of the storm.

_The scarf._

The scarf. Yes! The scarf. Newt smiled despite himself through the tears and the whimpers, and turned on his heel, almost running into someone. He speed walked to the stairwell at the end of the hall, swerving around the people in front of him when they moved too slowly. He took the steps as evenly as he could, each tap of his boots on the concrete stairs staccato and perfect. The humming in his spine quieted some. He raced down four flights of stairs, his hands clenched into fists. At Level 3 he hurried down the halls in the general direction of the labs and residences.

Newt paused at a junction. The lab was straight ahead, and his quarters were to the right. But where was the scarf? He tried to remember. It was either in the footlocker at the end of his bed, or in his bed, or under his bed, or somewhere amongst the clothing items he’d accumulated in the lab. He veered right, deciding to check his quarters first.

As the heavy metal door swung shut behind him Newt scanned the room looking for the telltale grey-blue fabric. He darted to the footlocker and threw it open, digging around frantically. Nothing. His hand brushed against something made of fur— _why the fuck is that in there in the first place—_ and he screamed and jerked his hands back. He slammed the footlocker shut and sat back, hugging his knees to his chest and trying to slow his breathing.

The steady stream of “I’m going to die” swirling around his head had intensified past the point of intelligible thought and was now a loud whir that drowned out all other thoughts. Save one.

_The scarf._

Gradually he calmed. The familiarity of his own quarters calmed him, as did the relative silence compared to the halls. He stood shakily and went to the bed. No scarf. He looked under the bed, shoved a few things out of the way. No scarf. He stood and a strangled noise escaped him.

He ran from the room, slamming the door behind him and cringing at the sound. He flew to the lab, barely registering Hermann at his chalkboard in his haste.

_The scarf. Fuck. The scarf. I’m going to die. Shit. The scarf. The scarf the scarf the scarf the scarf fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck._

Newt dashed to the closets allotted him at the rear of the lab. Hermann said something but he couldn’t register what. He fumbled with the lock on the door, his hands shaking too much to get a good fingerprint reading the first time. Tears were still streaming down his face and he couldn’t see. The lock clicked open and he heard the quiet thump of Hermann’s cane.

“Newton.”

Newt flinched despite not being surprised.  He turned to see Hermann approaching cautiously, his face contorted with—with what? Newt didn’t have the processing power to figure it out right now. Contorted with something.

Newt wiped at his eyes and sniffled, then turned back to the closet. _The scarf._ He shoved item after item aside frantically. His hand closed around a piece of fabric and he yanked it out where he could see it, then threw it aside when he saw that it was just a hat. He tore through the entire closet without finding the damn scarf. He slammed the door and sat back heavy against it.

His hand was scratching at his arm again but he was powerless to stop it. The pain quieted his head and the tingles radiating down his spine.

He felt something heavy on his shoulder suddenly and his hand lashed out without his permission. Hermann cursed. Newt looked up to see him shaking out his hand. He dimly registered a pang of guilt at having hurt him but was unable to vocalize an apology.

Hermann crouched ( _how?_ ) in front of Newt. “Newton, can you tell me what’s wrong?” he asked, fully grasping the situation.

Newt was finally able to shake his head no.

“Can you tell me anything?”

Newt’s hands slowly drifted up to shakily sign “pain.”

Hermann moved a bit closer.

“Bodily pain or sensory pain?” he clarified, and Newt held up a “2” hand.

Hermann stood difficultly and disappeared from Newt’s range of vision. He could feel himself withdrawing from the world, every bit of “Newt” condensing into a tiny core in his chest, leaching from his hands and feet inwards. His hands no longer worked for him and fluttered about of their own volition.

A minute later Hermann reappeared. “Newton, I have a blanket and headphones for you. I’ll try to find your scarf. Max is on his way, too.” Newt nodded as much as he could manage and tried so hard not to flinch as Hermann stepped close and wrapped a thick, soft blanket tight around him.

Almost immediately the humming like television snow down his spine began to die down. A second later when large headphones were placed over his ears he felt the edges of the core in his chest begin to soften.

Hermann walked away leaving Newt in blissful silence against the closet door.

It was ten minutes before Newt could find his voice.

“Thank you, Hermann,” he said, sounding loud to his own ears but knowing Hermann probably couldn’t hear.

A moment later Hermann and his cane entered his range of vision and stopped two feet away. He crouched down, lifted Newt’s chin with careful fingers, and pressed a warm kiss to his forehead, then stood and moved away.

The tingle that ran down Newt’s spine just then was not a bad thing, for once. He smiled into the folds of the blanket tucked around him and his hands fluttered words of love that he would speak later, when he could move again. But for now, he sat content in the literal warmth of Hermann’s compassion. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello I am the author who is actually autistic. So please don't get all "that's not what a meltdown is like" because this is the kind of meltdowns I have always personally experienced. Just saying. Every autistic person is different.


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